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“i know i am in love again when"
light shakes into the cobwebs woven over
all the empty doorframes. when a nearby car’s
bass is a feigned serenade
& the moon seems like a dirty thing. passing
fuselage & hospital lights glint & i’m turned on
thinking they flash for me. me, whose favorite window
features a view that’s mostly ground. me, who’s quiet,
swaddled, blanket-borne
in the fucking eve, waiting on a call
from my only lover, or a friend six states away.
the space between
saying how much i miss everyone i know
& pressing my forehead to my knee
is usually smaller than i think.
the closest body of water
calls itself a river, but it’s stagnant.
i call myself a lot to give,
but that’s an exaggeration. walking the bank,
i trace ripples—lamp-lit contours that fade
into murk. i am two breaths away from saying
i don’t understand happiness
when the voice on the other end of the line
asks if it’s okay
to hang up now. what is the opposite
of blank noise? insert that excess
here. i want to live off it.
Raena Shirali, No More Potluck. Issue 33: Solitude”
―
light shakes into the cobwebs woven over
all the empty doorframes. when a nearby car’s
bass is a feigned serenade
& the moon seems like a dirty thing. passing
fuselage & hospital lights glint & i’m turned on
thinking they flash for me. me, whose favorite window
features a view that’s mostly ground. me, who’s quiet,
swaddled, blanket-borne
in the fucking eve, waiting on a call
from my only lover, or a friend six states away.
the space between
saying how much i miss everyone i know
& pressing my forehead to my knee
is usually smaller than i think.
the closest body of water
calls itself a river, but it’s stagnant.
i call myself a lot to give,
but that’s an exaggeration. walking the bank,
i trace ripples—lamp-lit contours that fade
into murk. i am two breaths away from saying
i don’t understand happiness
when the voice on the other end of the line
asks if it’s okay
to hang up now. what is the opposite
of blank noise? insert that excess
here. i want to live off it.
Raena Shirali, No More Potluck. Issue 33: Solitude”
―
